Moulin Rouge--Free As a Bird
by phoebenpiper
Summary: Paris 1899 wasn't the first time Christian and Satine met. Their paths first crossed years earlier on a fateful day in London.


Free as a Bird  
a Moulin Rouge story  
by phoebenpiper, aka Cordelia L. Willis  
  
(Disclaimer: I don't know these characters--they are probably the property of BazMark productions and Twentieth Century Fox. I also don't own "Free As a Bird"--the Beatles probably do. No copyright infringement is intended.)  
  
---  
  
The girl stood at the backstage door, straining to hear the sounds of the final applause. 'Someday those applause will be for me,' she thought. 'Someday I'll be an actress, and the men will stomp and cheer for me.'  
  
But not tonight. The applause signaled that the play was over, which meant it was time for her to start acting. She left the shadows of the back of the theatre for the shadows at the front. After a night at the theatre, many men were eager for a little private entertainment, the kind she could provide. As she leaned against the wall of the theatre, waiting for the men to come out, she combed her fingers through her long auburn hair and smoothed out the wrinkles on her red satin dress, willing her stomach to stop grumbling. She took a deep breath of the London night air but coughed from the smoke, coal smoke from the   
factories where her mother had worked till the day she'd died, leaving the girl to fend for herself.  
  
The men started to emerge from the theatre, talking and smoking and leering. The girl put on her best smile as the men passed, a true test of her acting ability.  
  
Eventually a drunken Frenchman stumbled her way. "Bonsoir, Petite Satine."  
  
The girl wondered why the men always made reference to her red satin dress. Perhaps it was because the other girls all wore dark, plain dresses of cotton or muslin, so the red satin stood out from them. Or maybe the men noticed her dress so that they wouldn't have to notice that they were propositioning a   
thirteen-year-old.  
  
"Bonsoir, monsieur," the girl said, smiling coyly and tossing her hair.  
  
The Frenchman put one hand on her shoulder and then drunkenly stumbled into her, pinning her against the wall. She could smell the scotch on his breath, and she desperately tried not to breathe.  
  
"Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir, Petite Satine?"  
  
The girl smiled to herself. Her father had insisted she study French as a wee girl. "Speaking French will show the world that you are cultured and refined," he'd said. Yet since his death, and the death of her mother, this lewd phrase was the only French she ever heard.  
  
And it made her feel far from cultured and refined.  
  
"Oui, monsieur," the girl said as she followed the Frenchman into the darkness.  
  
****  
  
The man couldn't wait till they got back to his room, instead finding a hard alley wall to double as a bed. The girl closed her eyes, knowing that he was so drunk, he wouldn't last long.  
  
And his intoxication had another added benefit--the man far overpaid her, handing her coin after coin, not realizing he had already paid her many times over.  
  
After he stumbled away into darkness, the girl hurried under a lamp-post to calculate her earnings. Some of the coins were French, but she didn't care. It was still the most money she'd ever received, the most money she'd ever HAD. This would keep her in food for at least a fortnight, and she might even be able   
to afford a new dress.  
  
But best of all, she wouldn't have to stand at the theatre door tomorrow night.  
  
So, as the girl drifted off to sleep that night, she dreamed of all the wonderful things she'd be eating in the next few weeks, content in the knowledge that she was free from men for awhile.  
  
****  
  
The bearded man opened up yet another drawer behind the counter. "And here's where we keep the receipts of the cheques....Christian!" the man barked at his small companion. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"  
  
"Yes I have," the boy stammered. "This is where...you...receive the cheques?"  
  
The man sighed frustratedly and slammed the drawer shut. "I don't understand you, Christian, wasting your life away daydreaming. Why, when I was a boy your age, I already knew what I wanted to do with my life."  
  
"I know what I want to do with my life," the boy said with wide-eyed enthusiasm.  
  
"A poet is not a career!" the man barked.  
  
As he continued with his tirade, the boy's mind wandered. Despite his father's ideas, he DID know what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to travel and see the world, to experience things one couldn't do in dear old London.  
  
And he wanted to write. Poetry, songs, plays--anything, as long as he could write about that which he truly believed in: truth, beauty, freedom, and love.  
  
Rather grandiose ideas for a boy of twelve.  
  
"Christian!" The boy jumped as he was brought back to reality by the slamming of a book upon the counter. "I give up. Your mind is obviously someplace else today."  
  
The boy's face fell. Although he hadn't been paying attention, he didn't like hearing the disapproval in his father's voice. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely, his head hung in shame.  
  
The man shook his head and slowly smiled. "Why don't you go play outside?" he said, realizing it was hopeless to try to get through to the boy. "I still have a few more hours to work, but there's no reason for you to be cooped up inside."  
  
The boy's eyes sparkled. "Are you certain, father?" he asked, not believing his luck.  
  
The man smiled at the boy's enthusiasm. "Yes. Just be back here by noon. Your mother will have our heads if we're not home in time for dinner."  
  
"Yes, father," the boy said, rushing out the door of the bank into the summer sunshine.  
  
****  
  
The girl smiled deeply as she bit into the sweet nut roll. She knew she should eat something better, but every day she passed by this bakery and was overcome by its sweet smells, so she'd decided to indulge herself.  
  
When she'd first awakened this morning, she thought perhaps she'd merely dreamed of the drunken Frenchman, so she was thrilled when she'd found the coins tucked away in her dress. Now, as she wandered along the crowded streets, she contemplated what she should spend her newfound fortune on.  
  
Food. And a dress. And maybe the theatre.  
  
The girl stopped and stared up at the theatre she was passing. Yes, definitely she would spend some money on the theatre. Although it was extravagant, and it would mean she'd have to resort to men sooner, she was determined to go, to have a night of entertainment that wasn't at her expense.  
  
And once the decision was made, the girl walked with a bounce in her step, barely able to contain her excitement. A night at the theatre! If only the great Sarah Bernhardt were visiting from France, everything would be perfect.  
  
Soon, without any realization of where she was walking, she found herself at the steps of St. Paul's. She found it ironic that she'd come here, as this was where she always came when she was feeling sad. The tall grandeur of the cathedral, with its proud beauty reaching far up into the heavens, always cheered her up. Yet today she was happy, the happiest she'd been for a long time, and she still had sought out this place.  
  
The girl sat down on the steep stone steps. She often wished to go inside the great church, to feel at one with the beauty and the majesty, at one with God. But she knew she'd never be allowed inside. Although as a child she'd been taught that Jesus had embraced the poor and the wicked, she didn't think the pious churchgoers would be quite as understanding.  
  
She looked up at the sky, where the sun was struggling to shine through the smoke and pollution. The sun often would shine upon the cathedral, even when the rest of the city was draped in darkness. The girl didn't know whether it was because the church was in an open space above the river, or whether God was   
specifically seeking out the desperate souls that gathered there. But the reason didn't matter, as long as the sun shone down on her.  
  
And that's when she heard it. A voice, carried on the wind. The voice of an angel.   
  
"Free...as a bird."  
  
At first the girl thought it must be the boys' choir practicing inside, but then she realized the voice came from outside, nearby.  
  
The girl stood and followed the sound of the voice till she reached its source.  
  
"It's the next best thing to be  
free as a bird."  
  
A boy in short pants and knee-high socks was feeding the birds along the side of the church. He was roughly her age though a good foot shorter, as he had yet to reach adolescence. His youth was also evident in his voice, which was soaring high with the clear tone of a soprano.  
  
But that wasn't what was so mesmerizing. The boy seemed oblivious to his surroundings, making up his song without a care in the world. His voice was full of life and the joy of living, and it made the girl remember her own childhood, which now seemed a lifetime away.  
  
"Home...home and dry,  
like a homing bird I fly,  
as a bird on wings."  
  
The girl leaned against the wall and became lost in her memories.  
  
****  
  
'This is the life,' the boy thought to himself as he sprinkled more seed out for the birds. He often passed the cathedral with his father, and he always asked to stop and buy some seeds from the old lady who sold them there, but his father would never allow it. "The birds can find their own food," his father would say. "No use wasting your money on them."  
  
But the boy didn't consider it a waste. And he still couldn't believe that his father had actually let him go exploring by himself. He'd longed to walk the streets of London and truly live, and today he'd gotten his chance.  
  
So here he was, wasting his money and having a wonderful time.  
  
"Free...as a bird,  
it's the next best thing to be  
free as a bird."  
  
He didn't notice the girl at first, but when he did, he momentarily blushed, wondering what she must think of him blithely singing away. After his initial embarrassment, he took a good look at the girl. She was much taller, though he guessed her to be about his age. And she'd be pretty, he thought, if her hair were combed and her dress cleaned. She seemed almost in a trance, mesmerized by the birds, so he decided to approach her.  
  
"Want some?" he asked, holding out his hand full of seed.  
  
The girl jumped, startled by his sudden approach. "I...." she stammered, looking down.  
  
"Here," the boy said, reaching for her hand and pouring some seed into it. "But don't move too fast," he instructed, demonstrating by slowing sprinkling some seed on the ground. "They startle easily."  
  
The girl followed his example and was soon kneeling down, surrounded by a dozen pigeons. The boy smiled to himself as he watched her, seeing her enjoyment bloom. "I love birds," she mumbled to herself.  
  
"Me, too," the boy said, startling the girl, who had forgotten she wasn't alone. "I'd like to have a bird someday, but I'd hate to have to cage it."  
  
The girl nodded absently, once again engrossed with the birds.  
  
"So what's your name?" the boy asked, standing beside her. "My name's Christian."  
  
The girl turned and stared up at him blankly, which struck him as funny.   
  
"What--you forgot your own name?" he teased.  
  
"It's Sarah," she finally said. "My name's Sarah." She looked away, adding, "But they always call me Satine."  
  
"Who's they?" the boy asked, totally oblivious to her tone. "Your parents?"  
  
All joy instantly faded from her face, and she looked forlornly down at the ground.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," the boy said, feeling terrible that he'd brought it up.  
  
But the girl put on a smile and looked up at him, shrugging. "It doesn't matter."  
  
The boy, wanting to change the subject, quickly said, "You're out of birdseed. I'll go get us some more."  
  
The girl stood, grinning proudly. "That's okay. I'll buy it," she said, reaching into her skirts. But a moment later her smile faded as she frantically started searching her clothes. "It's gone."  
  
The boy looked confused. "What's gone?"  
  
"My money!" the girl said, nearing hysteria.  
  
"It's okay," the boy said, trying to ease her panic. "I'll pay for the birdseed."  
  
"You don't understand!" the girl snapped. "It was everything I had. And now it's gone!" And the girl sat upon a nearby bench, tears streaming down her cheeks.  
  
The boy reached into his pocket, pulling out what money he had. "You can have mine," he offered, holding out his hand to her.  
  
But the girl laughed bitterly at his donation. "You're just a BOY. What good are your pennies going to do me?" And with that she collapsed into tears.  
  
The boy stood by, helpless. Girls were something totally foreign to him, being an only child who attended a boys' school. And now, to be faced with this tall girl racked with sobs, he had no idea what to do.   
  
He finally got out his handkerchief and tentatively handed it to her, not knowing if she'd scoff at that, too. But she took it, and eventually her tears slowed.  
  
****  
  
At first she'd felt only panic, frantic to find the money. Then hopelessness had washed over her as she realized it was truly gone. And finally, she'd been overcome with sadness, mournful for her loss.  
  
But now numbness had set in, and nothing could hurt her.  
  
'I got what I deserved,' the girl thought, silently reprimanding herself. 'Wanting to go to the theatre when I'm living on the streets was too frivolous. I cared too much about the money, the theatre.'  
  
'And I can't care. It's no longer an option for me. Caring is only for those who can afford it.'  
  
'And I'll never be able to afford it.'  
  
Her eyes were now dry, and she looked down blankly at the handkerchief in her hands, almost forgetting why she had it.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
The boy's voice startled her, and she looked up at him.  
  
He was standing above her, staring down on her with such pity and tenderness in his vibrant eyes; the sight of him made her bristle. He represented everything she wasn't: rich, secure, happy, compassionate, and above all innocent.  
  
But he'd learn soon enough. He'd experience true loss, and then he'd realize that it was pointless to care.  
  
Caring only brings heartache.  
  
The girl absently brushed away the final tear that still clung to her cheek and stood up.  
  
"I'll be fine." She put on a smile and handed back the handkerchief. "Thank you."  
  
She started to walk away quickly, thinking, 'I've got to get away. I can't stand to see the pity in his eyes.'  
  
"I have money."  
  
There was something in the boy's tone that made her stop.  
  
"In the bank," he continued. "My father gave it to me, to teach me the value of money."  
  
The girl turned to face him as he concluded, "I want you to have it."  
  
Despite her resolve not to care, hope bubbled up inside her. "I can't take your money," she said even as she considered it.  
  
"Why not?" the boy asked naively. "I don't need it." He looked down, almost embarrassed as he added, "You do."  
  
The girl smiled and shook her head, trying hard not to care. "Your father will never let you give me your money."  
  
"It's MY money," the boy said resolutely. "And I'm giving it to you." He paused, an intense look on his face, and the girl wondered if he was changing his mind. But he was clearly thinking something through, and in a moment he said, "Tomorrow. I'll bring it to you tomorrow."  
  
The hope was growing in the girl. "Where?"  
  
"Here," the boy said, gesturing to the benches by the great church. "In the morning. I'll bring it to you. I promise."  
  
"Don't be silly," the girl said, smiling. "You can't just give all your money to a stranger."  
  
The boy looked momentarily bewildered. "But you're not a stranger."  
  
Reality was starting to settle on the girl, making her gruff. "Yes I am. You don't even KNOW me."  
  
She could read the hurt on his face and instantly regretted saying it.  
  
But a look of resolve soon replaced the hurt, and he said, "I don't care. I'm giving you the money. Just meet me here tomorrow morning." The boy nodded resolutely and turned to go.  
  
The girl was speechless, not knowing what to say.  
  
Before getting far, the boy turned around, a big grin on his face. "I'll see you tomorrow then."  
  
The girl laughed at his eagerness, nodding. She then looked down, not wanting to meet his eye as she said, "Thank you."  
  
Because she was looking down, she didn't see his look of contentment as he said, "Goodbye," hurrying off into the busy streets.  
  
****  
  
"Absolutely not!"  
  
The boy was surprised at his father's angry response. "But why not?" the boy whined. "It's MY money, is it not?"  
  
"Not for you to go wasting it on a whim."  
  
"It's not a waste," the boy insisted. "The girl really needs it. You should've seen her, father-she couldn't stop crying."  
  
The man laughed. "I can't believe it-only twelve-years-old and already under the spell of some manipulating whore."  
  
The boy practically choked over the word. "A whore?" he asked, even as he realized it was true. He hadn't even considered what the girl would do for money without her parents. And although he had thought her ragged satin dress seemed out of place in the middle of the day, the reality of it hadn't hit him till his father uttered the ugly word.  
  
The man laughed. "She just wanted your money and was going to get it any way she could."  
  
The boy shook his head, his thoughts in turmoil. He was as certain that his father was correct about her identity as he was wrong about her motives. After all, she was still just a child, like him, wasn't she? And her tears had been real, just as her smiles had been as she'd fed the birds.  
  
The man shook his head. "A lot of good your idealistic views did you. That's what you get for daydreaming your life away." The man started out of the parlor, saying, "I'll leave you alone to contemplate what a fool you've been."  
  
But the boy was still determined. No doubt she didn't sell herself by choice but was forced into it due to lack of money. She was a good person, he was certain, and maybe his money could free her from that life.  
  
"Free...as a bird."  
  
Even if it did mean defying his father.  
  
****  
  
The girl stood by the theatre door that night, her mind in turmoil. 'Maybe this'll be my last night here,' she thought hopefully.   
  
'No. You mustn't think that. You mustn't get your hopes up.'  
  
'He's just an idealistic boy who took pity on you. He won't even remember you tomorrow.'  
  
'But what if he does? What if he gives me money so I don't have to do this to myself every night?'  
  
'Even if he does, it won't last forever. The money will eventually run out, and I'll be right back where I started.'  
  
'But think of what I could do with the money. Food. Clothes. Maybe even a real bed. I could free myself from this life once and for all.'  
  
"Free...as a bird,  
it's the next best thing to be  
free as a bird."  
  
"Très bien, mademoiselle," a man said, emerging from the shadows.  
  
The girl jumped, startled by his appearance and embarrassed that he'd heard her.  
  
"Tu chantes comme un beau petit oiseau."  
  
The girl laughed to herself at the irony of him comparing her to a bird.  
  
"Merci, monsieur."  
  
"Tu as si doué," he spoke of her talent as his finger traced down her bare arm to her hand, which he then raised to his lips. "Et si belle."  
  
The girl put on a sweet smile as he gently kissed her hand.  
  
****  
  
The man paused in his early morning shaving to stare at the girl in the mirror. She had seemed so tired last night afterwards, he'd decided to let her stay. Now she lay naked upon the bed, curled on her side, deep in sleep. Her long red hair lay strewn across the pillow, contrasting sharply against her pale alabaster skin.  
  
'She is truly beautiful," he thought, watching her chest rise and fall with the slow, even breaths of peaceful slumber.  
  
And he wanted her. But not just in the way he'd wanted her last night. He wanted to own her, to mould her into the woman he knew she could be. She had talent, and not just in the bedroom. Although she'd sold her body to him like any common whore, she had somehow made him feel as if she had meant every smile. That kind of acting talent couldn't be taught. And that, coupled with her natural beauty and birdlike singing, would make her worth far more than she could ever make on the streets of London.  
  
The girl stirred, and the man turned from the mirror to watch her. The girl rolled onto her back, yawning and stretching. She opened her eyes, looking around as if she didn't remember where she was. But as soon as her eyes fell upon the man, a look of recognition crossed her face. Her modesty instantly   
returned and she blushed, quickly covering her bare body with a sheet.  
  
The man smiled at her bashfulness. "Tu as bien dormi?" he asked, already knowing she'd slept well.  
  
The girl smiled a genuine, contented smile and nodded.  
  
The man sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly overcome by her youthfulness. "Quelle âge as-tu?" he inquired of her age, tracing his finger across her bare shoulder.  
  
She sat up and leaned towards him, holding the sheet tight to her chest. Smiling coyly, the girl answered in French, "How old do you want me to be?"  
  
The man smiled in amazement. 'Truly talented.'   
  
His decision was made. Now he just needed to make her the offer.  
  
"Tu as la France visitée?" he asked.  
  
The girl's eyes sparkled with a genuine smile. "I've always longed to see Paris," she answered eagerly in perfect French.  
  
The man grinned. This was going to be easier than he thought.  
  
****  
  
The boy crouched down to spread the last of his birdseed upon the ground, watching the birds gather around to eat as he sang to himself:  
  
"Home...home and dry,  
like a homing bird I fly,  
as a bird on wings."  
  
He yawned, wishing he could go home. He felt like he'd been at the church forever, and he was starting to get bored.  
  
Or perhaps it was his conscience eating away with him. This was the first time he'd ever purposely disobeyed his father.  
  
Not that he wasn't often in trouble. As a born dreamer, he was always disappointing his pragmatic father. But never willfully.  
  
'I must be growing up,' the boy thought to himself and then laughed. Giving his life-savings to a whore didn't exactly seem to be a responsible first move as an adult.  
  
But he knew it was the right thing to do. When all was said and done, she was still really just a child, just like him. Given the opportunity, he knew she would grow up to be a beautiful, kind adult.  
  
And in this case, opportunity meant money, and the boy was willing to sacrifice his for her. After all, what did money mean to a well-fed boy who believed in the ideals of Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love?  
  
The noonday bells tolled, and the boy stood and wandered around the courtyard, scanning the faces for the girl.  
  
'Where could she be?' he wondered.  
  
****  
  
The girl hurried along the busy streets, her mind a mass of confusion. The last two days had been such a whirlwind of emotions, she felt as if she'd dreamed them.  
  
But they weren't a dream. They were a choice. A choice of where her life was to go from here.  
  
Two days ago she'd had no choice. The days and nights had stretched out before her with no end, no hope. But now, suddenly, her life was to change forever.  
  
The noonday bells began to toll, and she quickened her pace. She didn't want her tardiness to ruin everything.  
  
****  
  
The man turned to see the girl hurrying up, and he smiled.  
  
"Bienvenue, mademoiselle," he said, walking over to meet her.  
  
She smiled, saying gratefully, "Merci, monsieur."  
  
The man looked from her radiant smile down to her tattered dress. He was definitely doing the right thing, for her as well as for him.  
  
Yet he didn't even know the girl's name.  
  
"Quel est ton nom?"  
  
The girl paused in thought, as if making a grand decision instead of merely answering a simple question.   
  
Finally, she smiled and answered simply, "Satine."  
  
THE END  



End file.
